Awakening
by Ashen Pyromancer
Summary: A short drabble of the Ashen One awakening in the beginning of the game. May continue, may not.


The first thing I remember is graveyard soil. Loamy, cold, and filled with ash. And then the scorching of flame, beneath my flesh. Painful, unending, and scouring all within. I gasped and rose up, and I found myself in a graveyard. Earth fell away from my body and I stumbled forward. Gray fog surrounded me, and I could only vaguely see the gravestones.

The flames within roiled and twisted, and I cried out before my mastery was remembered. With a clenched fist, I summoned the flame into my palm and the pain faded, leaving behind a pleasant warmth. I glanced down - my hand was scorched and black, and sparks fell from it.

I took a step forward and stumbled with the weight - my axe was now remembered. I hefted it and shouldered the weight. It was another burden, but a welcome one. My clothing was thick fur and solid boots, and a small wreath around my brow. I distantly remember downing the beast that provided the antler for it.

Nowhere to go but forward.

I go.

A flask is found, a twin to the one I already carry. Its glass stings my hand unlike the other - I take a sip and icey clarity is forced into my mind. The fog fades, and a shambling man is visible. He wields a blade, rusted and broken.

A quick step is followed by a heavy downward blow with my axe, and I hear the hollow sound of his skull splitting like a log. Another thump follows, and I hear his death rattle and the wisp of his discarded souls spilling from him like water from a broken skin. I gather them in my palm and bring them with me, dancing and light within.

More men. More hollow thunks. They're in a worse state than I. Barely aware and only attacking in a blind stupor.

Some are more aware. They have crossbows, but their brittle fingers can only pull so fast. Even my awkward motions are enough to dodge by the bolts.

And then I see him.

Grand, powerful, broken, pitiful.

His name is upon my tongue before it's within my mind. Gundyr.

Embedded in his chest is a blade, and upon his back is a writhing blackness. He did it to himself. He keeps himself sealed, but I can see the blackness climb downward, bit by bit.

I draw the blade. He awakens. His fury is unmatched.

My body is no match.

I shatter upon the earth.

Darkness.

And then I arise again, with the embers of the flame dancing before my eyes. I'm not sure how long has passed. I feel the memory of my gathered souls tingle at the edge of my senses, and a primal drive forces me up to move to them.

Gundyr is already awake. But I don't care about him.

A mighty blade falls into the earth beside me as my hand comes down and clutches the liquid-solid mass, and then a memory catches me in its feathery grasp.

Timing, weight, and power. My shield, meager as it was, is dashed against his blow and he stumbles from the redirection. And then my axe clangs heavily into his stomach, once then twice, and he lays upon the earth.

Clarity returns, bit by bit, and I find myself circling without knowing why. He circles as well, and the breathing of Not-Gundyr is heavy in the chill air. He leaps forward, and I dodge back with a motion that I only remembered after I did it.

My axe bites into his chest again soon after, and then there's a scream. High and loud, and filled with an indistinct hate.

He is gone. Gundyr is no more.

What's left is a beast of the Dark.

My flame tickles my palm and I press my fist forward, and it leaps forward, giving the beast a kiss to the lips. It screams, and that's the opportunity my flame needed. It surges forward in a condensed orb, and the beast screeches again, and then my flame tries to surge again - but my mind fogs and I forget how.

I feel its blow land heavily on my shoulder, and I spin into the earth. Crisp memories dance in my mind of what should be done, and I do so, and my roll only barely saves me from a great gaping maw from swallowing me whole.

Two flasks; one warm and numbing, the other cold and biting, and my mind is in a hazy state of half drunk but painfully sober.

The beast is feral. My flame is pure.

It falls.

The blade clatters to the stone and I take it - warped and worthless as a weapon, but it was mine.

I stumble forward, after spending longer than I should gazing at the flame.

Another flame awaited me - this one dead and cold, but its ghost remained.

The blade whispered, and I understood. I plunged it into the ghost and the ghost arose just as I did, into warm safety.

I turned my head and heard a voice.

"Welcome home, Ashen One."


End file.
